


I Will Continue Playing

by Lunarium



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: F/F, Ghosts, Romance, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: A new woman comes to Odense, completely enthralled by the city, and Pastor Agnes is equally enchanted by her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> To Elleth: a story for you from the depths of my heart. ♥ 
> 
> All of my thanks to my two wonderful betas, IdleLeaves and Yuuago!

The silence hung over her shoulders like vast white wings, pure and tranquil in its sacred serenity. The occasional shuffling of papers did little to break the peace around her, so still that she could make out, however soft it was, the twittering of a songbird outside her window. Sunlight cast a soft glow on a framed picture of a mild-mannered woman in pastor’s robes standing between some of the chapel’s concession. Beneath it, the plaque with the name Pastor Agnes Hummel reflected the light.

Pastor Agnes picked up the fountain pen; it scratched against the surface of her wooden desk as she dragged it up, the tiny noise soon swallowed by the tranquillity of the chapel office. With the pen-tip poised above the page, she began writing her first word when the ear-splitting roar of the organ pipes bellowed, startling her.

“What madness is this?” she said, confused for a moment. No one has played the organ in close to a year. “Who is that?”

Miffed, she stood up and made her way down the hall, ready to tell off any naughty child who had snuck in to stir mischief.

But in place of any annoying child was a woman, her face and age concealed by the hat she wore. Her nimble fingers swam across the keyboards of the organ, though the song was short-lived, interrupted as she was seized by a coughing fit. She fanned away at the dust that had blown from the organ pipes.

“They have not been in use for a while, child,” Agnes informed her with vague amusement.

“They haven’t? That’s a shame,” the woman said. “My parents taught me the piano, but I have always loved the sound of church organs.”

“This is a chapel, dear.”

“It is still a beautiful instrument, Mother.” The woman bowed respectfully, but there was something in the way she spoke that drew interest from Agnes. When she looked up, sunlight shone on the wrinkles under her eyes, which glimmered brown, flecks of green within, and lighter than that of her skin.

“What brings you in today?” Agnes asked.

“I come to inquire about a job here, if you would have me.” She knew the language well enough; Danish carried out from her lips with ease, though another language mingled with it such that her enunciation was like the fluttering of butterfly wings rather than a native speaker.

 _So that is why you have made yourself acquainted with the chapel organ!_ Agnes thought in amusement. “Come to my office, dear.”

☁

“And what is your name again?”

“Mudiwa Dam. I was born in Zimbabwe.”

“But your surname is not—”

Mudiwa shook her head. “No, Mother. My father was from here: Denmark. Born, raised, got his medical degree. He moved to Zimbabwe to practice and that was where he met my mother. They both loved God and music, so they taught me the Bible and the piano. My father always spoke fondly of his home back in Denmark before the good Lord called him and Mother to join Him. I always wanted to visit here with my father, but now I seek to move here. Now Odense calls for me as much as Harare once called for him.”

“I am certain your parents are with you right now in spirit. You seem very fond of them.” 

Smiling, Mudiwa nodded her head once as her eyes strayed back towards the window in wonderment. Agnes heard her whispering to herself, “A Jacaranda tree would look nice over there.”

“We can look into if a Jacaranda tree can be planted on Odense soil.”

Mudiwa glanced at her in slight embarrassment. 

“You would have liked my parents, Mother. There was hardly anyone who didn’t.”

Agnes smiled. “I am certain of that. Well, you have the job, Mudiwa. It would do you well to establish yourself if you wish to become a permanent resident of Denmark. We have not had a proper organ player for some time, and seeing you demonstrate your skills so well this morning, it seems you would do well in this endeavor.” 

Mudiwa bowed her head. “Thank you, Mother.”

“One other question, if you do not mind: can you sing?”

Blushing, Mudiwa beamed. “Yes, Mother!”

☁

Mudiwa yearned deeply for a land she never lived in. Agnes saw it in her eyes whenever the strange woman peered out the window, lost in some nostalgic reminiscing. Her father’s ancestry flowing through her veins made her crave something intangible, something she could not describe to the pastor. But Agnes knew: Mudiwa was in love, and the city the object of her affection.

The congregation received Mudiwa well, and she adored them in return. Her singing and playing were as wings parting clouds to sunlight. After the sermon she would watch them from afar, drinking in their little private lives with curiosity and wonder. It appeared her father had abandoned many of his old customs when he had moved to Zimbabwe, for everything in Denmark delighted Mudiwa, from its sweets to its buildings and green scenery.

“You think it was tragedy that brought me here?” Mudiwa said. They strolled side by side in the cemetery’s garden. Her eyes drank up the tall green bushes, the statues and the intricately headstones, all absorbed into her hungry gaze. “It was not that. I did not leave my hometown in tears, but happily. I always knew I would come here. A feeling, you could say. Coming here just felt right, like the good Lord pointed me towards this path.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Agnes said, smiling.

“And I am glad to have found my way to your chapel. Somehow, I trusted the direction my feet were taking me.”

Her gaze met Agnes, and she was lost in that same absorption that became the fate of everything Mudiwa beheld. It was not a sinful hunger—lust did not touch the eyes of Mudiwa, but there was a spark, of something that stirred a yearning Agnes did not often contemplate while in her line of work. Something pure, an angel’s yearning heard in a bird’s morning song. Whatever new path Mudiwa could see, Agnes found herself hoping she was part of it.

 _Silly thing, we have not known one another that long_ , she thought. Remembering a particularly beautiful spot in the garden, she motioned for Mudiwa to follow her, the crisp scraping of their heels striking against the walkway the only sound among the tranquil birdsongs and the soft rustling of trees.

☁

Twenty years had gone by since Mudiwa Dam entered the chapel—and twelve years since their marriage—before anyone raised a harsh word against Mudiwa’s race.

It came upon during an event held near the chapel, where anyone could attend, though most of the usual congregation were present at some point. By then Sister Mudiwa Dam had been fully adopted into their community. Her place of birth was never a raise of concern but of intrigue, especially among children who had dozens of questions about Africa.

But the radio which played during the event brought with it grave news of a strange illness, communicable and wide-spreading, and though the chapel carried on their annual event as well as they could, they could not pretend they did not hear the grave happenings reported over the air.

“They’ve already closed their borders in Iceland,” spoke one of their regular attendees. “Smart move. I hear one of the refugees had brought it in with them. Should have barred them from entering, I say!” 

He flashed Mudiwa a dark glare.

“I suppose the poor victim who reached Spain had contact with victims who all happened to then travel to Norway, Finland, Sweden, and Denmark,” Agnes said cooly as she strolled by Anton, placing herself as a shield between him and her wife. “That is quite a stretch, you must admit, Anton.”

Anton’s glare turned towards her, but it was short-lived as he realized who he was up against.

“You have a point, Mother,” he said and bowed his head.

Feeling a tug on her wrist, Agnes allowed herself to be led away by Mudiwa, who took her by the kitchens. Seeing Mudiwa shaking, she grabbed Mudiwa’s shoulders.

“Dear, do not let their words disturb you. Anton is an emotional man, as most men can be.”

But when Mudiwa glanced up, her eyes sparkled with tears. “Agnes, I hope this will not—recently there have been too many sentiments about immigrants—”

Agnes shook her head and gave Mudiwa a reassuring smile. “Don’t be afraid, dear. We’ve lived through the Avian flu and the swine flu. This is no different. Have faith in God; He has given the human mind the ability to overcome any obstacle. And you belong here as much as anyone. It is in your blood. And even if your father was not Danish, you are welcome to live here or anywhere you wish. Blood should not stop anyone from choosing where they wish to reside. This planet is our home as the children of God. Remember that.”

Warm wrinkled hands covered hers. “The chapel would be colder without you, dear.”

Mudiwa smiled. “You’re right. I’m being silly, letting one man scare me like that.” Clasping Agnes’s hand in hers, she brought it to her lips and kissed her knuckles.

“Now, to think of ways of reassuring the rest of our congregation while our esteemed researchers all over the world find the solution to this new epidemic!” She grinned. “How does that sound?”

☁

The congregation listened attentively to the words of Pastor Agnes’s sermon, their tear-filled hopeful eyes turning to the figure of their savior depicted in the tall glass window.

Mudiwa smiled with the gentle pride at her wife’s calming power over the attendees. Each day, more poured in seeking hope in words and prayer. She basked in their hope as she walked past rows of pews before a small girl caught her eye.

Red-faced, she wiped the tears from her face as she continued to pray before pulling back the sleeve of her arm, exposing a red wrist, and began to scratch.

☁

Some have come to love the chapel so much they made it their final place to rest.

Agnes awoke beside Mudiwa on their bed one evening, sensing another presence moving in the chapel. Mudiwa was not beside her, but she could easily have been in the washroom. The movement came downstairs, and it was rougher than Mudiwa’s light footfalls.

Finding herself drawn to the nave, Agnes discovered a man sat hunched on one of the pews, weeping.

“Anton?” Agnes cried out, immediately wrapping her robe tighter around herself when he looked up, his eyes bloodshot.

“I have died,” he said. “I was already sick with the Illness when the first wave of the news reached the media. Forgive me, Mother, for turning my anger against Sister Mudiwa. I…I was angry. I took it out on her because she was easy target. The disease couldn’t have come from the foreigners. I don’t know where’s it’s coming from, but I was hateful and foolish for turning my anger against a Sister. Forgive me.” 

Pastor Agnes bowed her head before stepping closer and placing her hand on his brow. Finding no hate in her heart but love and pity, she recited the words for their Lord to receive His child in mercy and love. 

When Agnes awoke, there were tears in her eyes. “What a dreadful dream!”

Yet when she later learned of Anton’s passing over breakfast, she was somehow not surprised.

☁

A rash began to spread on the back of Pastor Agnes’s neck, and along Mudiwa’s arm. Everyone in the congregation had rash running along their bodies. Nearly everyone they saw while strolling down the streets had some form of it. Some resided in the church beside the infirmary set up. Many didn’t make the night. It was the eventual fate of all.

Until a batch of new medication—a promise in the form of a vial—came to their desk.

“Hold still, dear, I know you don’t like shots,” Mudiwa instructed to the little girl as the nurse performed the simple curing procedure. With a tiny yelp, the girl buried her face in the pillow, but she was fine. She will be cured, the nurse announced.

Mudiwa turned and grinned to Agnes. Her face had gone gaunt, but still they kept their smiles and sang songs for the people who came to the chapel.

“I must confess, I hope we are not too late,” Agnes said as they passed hall after hall.

“I hope we are not,” Mudiwa answered. “And if we are, I hope we can make the most of it. My mother came from another faith, and her faith always taught her that even if you knew you will be dead tomorrow: live today as if nothing will be different. Let’s continue singing and praying for them.”

Pastor Agnes smiled.

Later that evening, as Mudiwa slept, Agnes pulled back her night shirt and sent a silent prayer of gratitude at seeing the rash virtually gone.

“We have been saved,” she said under her breath.

Mudiwa’s eyes cracked open.

“A happy ending to this story?” she said, leaning up to give her a kiss before Agnes slipped into bed beside her wife.

☁

It was after praying the path for the little girl’s spirit that Pastor Agnes sensed Mudiwa behind her.

“It has claimed you too, my dear?” she said. “And here I thought this was our cure.”

Mudiwa bowed her head as if in shame.

“It is not your fault, dear, nor the researchers of the cure. Some things just happen. It is all in God’s plan, though we are not privy to it, as much as it may pain us.” They both peered back towards the way the little girl had run off. 

“But we are still able to talk to one another,” Mudiwa said after a time. “And we are no longer in pain. But why are we not…is this our punish—”

“No,” Agnes said firmly and motioned around the nave. “I have been here before in my dreams. But somehow I know I will not be waking this time. I accept that, but I wish to remain here as long as I may. There are people still coming to our chapel; we are still their beacon of light, and I will stay here as long as they need me. But you, my dear…if you need me to—”

“No,” Mudiwa said firmly and settled herself at the organ. “I had a role to play here, and I will continue it, like yourself. People enjoyed my music and your prayers, so I will continue playing.”

Pastor Agnes nodded. “Then so let it be. It will not be so lonely here, then, with you beside me.”

Smiling, Mudiwa turned her nimble fingers to the organ and began to play.

☁

They had long abandoned the tank as the battle raged on, taking them out into the dark desolate roads of the once bustling and green Odense. The hiss of the trolls and the snap of the ghostly horse’s jaws sent jolts of shivers down their spines, but they did not look back. Any moment’s delay would prove fatal. Outnumbered, they were rendered virtually defenseless with but a rifle, a handgun, two knives, and a small set of hand explosives to share amongst themselves. Unable to deny their own doom, the team of explorers pushed forth to the bellowing commands of their leader.

In the back of the small party, the lanky defenseless member fell back, catching his breath as one hand comforted the kitten trembling in his deep sweater pocket. His lungs nearly ripping with pain, heart pounding with the approaching waves of ghosts advancing, Reynir Árnason froze as something else caught his attention, like a flicker of candlelight bringing light to perpetual darkness. 

“Hey!” he called out to his teammates. “Hey! Don’t you hear that?”

His question could be understood by only two of his teammates, but one of them was quick to translate. Distracted, the others all stopped in their tracks, but the action did not leave them vulnerable for attack. Something in the music kept the ghosts and trolls at bay. 

Lalli was the first to hear it, his head turning around in sudden confusion; he grabbed Tuuri’s shoulder and asked her about it in their language, but even when she did hear it she could not place a name to it. Sigrun’s eyes flashed with interest and grabbed for Emil’s arm, searching for the source while Emil warded off any monster with a flare gun. Mikkel stood stock-still, mouth slightly open in wonder.

“I’ve read about this before,” he said. “Music played on the organ. In churches, chapels.”

Reynir whipped around and saw it, his eyes brightening. “There!” And then, adding in a small voice—“There’s a light in the chapel!”

For indeed, as everyone saw when they turned towards the source of the music: a tall old chapel stood a distance away in the heart of a cemetery, and a light within it was still lit.


End file.
